Like Fire, it Burns
by uumiho
Summary: It's midnight, and for the first time in nearly fifteen dark years, Uchiha Sasuke walks the grounds of his old compound. /Sasuke-centric, rated for very light graphic imagery./


_Written for Lamb, who is the first person who has ever made me cry during a roleplay. She is also the best Naruto in the history of ever. Respect._

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**Like Fire, it Burns**

It's quiet.

The entire structure creaks with the voice of something that has not been touched since a day far back in time—something that holds a secret that is altogether terrible and heart-wrenching. It's midnight, and for the first time in nearly fifteen dark years, Uchiha Sasuke walks the grounds of his old compound.

The air still reeks with their blood. He thinks that if he just listened hard enough he could hear their voices calling his name, but he knows that to allow those wails of shock, of agony, into his head would all but break him. And yet, he continues.

Through the paths he once trod as a child, Sasuke walks, each memory, each new sensation, each spatter of dark crimson painting the ruddy earth in dark telling of what has past, is flung at him, carving out little heart-shaped pieces and littering them on the ground as he continues to move throughout the empty compound. He wonders when the last time he felt this much was. Surely, it has not been for many, many years.

He does not quite know why he's here—his feet have no place on this sod, amongst the spilt blood of what was once his family, his _clan_. He is naught but a traitor, a filthy smear amongst the wall of noble Uchiha. Had they still been alive, they would have been disgusted at what he had become. Then again, if they were alive, none of this would have happened, now would it?

Slowly, like in a funerary progression, Sasuke carries himself through the streets of his past, until he finally arrives at the modest building of wood and paper, sweat and blood and tears—the place where he once lived. Content. With a family who told him they loved him. Pausing, he kicks off his shoes, unwilling to taint the untouched grounds any more than he already has. (He's done a lot of tainting in his life, hasn't he?)

The smell of cinnamon touches his nose, briefly, before coiling back into a memory that may or may not have been real. It is a scent that has followed him through his life as something that brings happiness, things of goodness and purity. Sasuke almost buckles underneath himself, but he holds fast, not quite ready to die out so soon. He still has a long ways to go, after all.

Sneaking in past the guards was easy enough, but Sasuke can feel the pulse of Naruto's chakra, red-hot, itching at the back of his mind, and is aware that it is only a matter of time before someone senses him. He realizes idly that getting out will be much more difficult than getting in, especially with half of Konoha's brute squad charging in pursuit of him. (What a mess he has caused. Really now.) Sasuke knows all this, and yet, he feels he needs to stay a few moments longer. This place, this haven that was once his home.

If he walks down this hallway, he will be in his house. The room that still bears the mark of his parents' slaughter, and then the musty space that had once been where he had lain his head. The quiet, cozy room, where the window was positioned just so the sun could filter his room each morning, and his bedding was arranged so when the light came pouring into the solitude like liquid gold, it would catch on his young face, waking him in time to go train with his brother.

There is a moment where Sasuke doesn't know if he's able to take this path again.

A boy, a boy no older than seven or eight, cries out. It is a terrified sound, and horror coils in the pit of Sasuke's stomach. He watches as the young boy runs, _darts_, like mad, down the column of the house, through him, past him, into the streets where he sees the bodies of his loved ones—slain. Sasuke screams.

It is dead-silent, and all he can hear is his breathing and the rapid-fire gallop of his heart, near exploding inside his chest. Somehow, he takes a step forward. His bones are breaking, and he can feel each tendon snapping, one-by-one, with each new progression of his foot, and his muscles are screaming as invisible hands lay claws down his arms and legs, slicing through skin and tissue and everything else, until he's nothing but a broken mass of bleeding _nothing_.

His bare foot hits the floor—the door is still open, after all these years—of the room. There are two spots on the floor, next to each other, that mar the wood. He can spot them through the dust, and a little boy sees two crumpled bodies lying there, just as they had that night. He can imagine her, beautiful even in her moment of shattered fragility, and the word slips from his lips unbidden.

When the sound hits his ears he is almost disgusted with himself, ashamed that he would even think of dishonouring her memory in such a crude manner. He had relinquished his right to call her by her name the day he drew a blade through the name of Uchiha, and abandoned the great country his ancestors had once died to protect. No longer is he worthy. He does not _deserve_ to call such a woman by the affectionate murmur of a child. Sasuke is no son of hers. (It seems that they have faulty luck with sons.)

The house creaks, _loudly_, and despite himself, Sasuke jumps. The sudden start hits him like a frozen hurricane, solid ice slamming into his _oh so weak_ body and tearing him from where he stands, grating at him with an insistence that demands he curl up and stop. Stop breathing, stop walking, stop existing. For several moments, Sasuke cannot even move.

Finally, he regains some sense of reason, and forces himself to continue, but when he does, it is not the self-assured gait of confidence and pride. His head, not high, hangs low, and he walks with a concentrated step of loathing. Emotions pile upon each other, tearing at the inside of his ribcage to break free. With every touch of bleeding foot padding against the hallowed ground, they grow stronger, throwing themselves at him, screeching in pitches that he cannot hear, but _feel_, slamming into his walls of defense like waves of steel, burning to get out.

He is breaking. Shattering; the statue that he carefully picked apart, tweezing each tiny fragment of stone into place until it looked as if it had never been disturbed at all. Hard work—it is all falling apart now. He should have known it was too perfect to last, but denial is a formidable opponent, and Sasuke is powerless when so matched.

Sick. He is almost nauseous from the intense _feelings_ pelting him in showers of stone and hatred. Shame falls like blood, tears, on the dust-covered wood floor. He staggers.

In the end, it is the doorframe that keeps his heavy body from collapsing into the waiting arms of defeat. The ground beckons, and he knows if he can just reach the bed he can fall asleep and never wake up again. (Never wake up until he opens his eyes to angry red and the faces of the people who once called him ally surrounding him, judging him, despising him for everything he has ever done. They are just in their hatred—he deserves their scorn, just as he deserves his own.) Breath comes with difficulty now, and he fights harder than he should have to to regain his composure. Countless seconds flood by, and then he finds the strength to stand again. It is strength he didn't know he had, but is glad anyways, because if he did not he would be _crawling_ right now.

He never does make it all the way to the bed.

Almost there, he falls, struck by everything that has happened in the years he has endured. His body plummets, _hard_, with the delicate, chaotic grace of someone who has been dead longer than they have been alive, and lands, half on the matting, half off. Strained hands, pale and scarred, fist in the moldy cloth, desperate in their need for grounding—a weight to keep him from flying up into the sky and never coming back again. Something has lit a flame, and it is scorching him inside-out.

Like fire, Sasuke burns.

His blood drips on the floor, staining the once-pure bed sheets—only it's not blood. This is something else entirely, coloured with shame and anguish and deep, black, soul-ripping _despair_. It rolls down the cold skin of his arm and is quickly absorbed into now-torn white fabric, creating tiny ovals of dark wet in the musty sheet. It as if hot coals are pouring out of his mouth, and he yells, anguished. He shakes, violently, and spasms rack his thin frame as strikes from a whip would bite into his flesh and tear bits of his skin off, leaving bleeding wounds to fester and rot. His body feels like his dying, and somehow, his heart is ripping in half all over again.

Very clearly, he knows what is happening to him, but his mind cannot seem to comprehend it. Alone, in this dark room, haunted by the memories of his past, he huddles, lost in the sea of humanity and feeling he once though to have locked away for the rest of eternity. (How could he have been so utterly foolish.) Somewhere, midnight has passed, and ears prick to the sound of heartbroken wails echoing from the compound long thought dead by the people of the leaf.

For the first time since that night, several long years ago, when the moon was full and the air was thick with the scent of blood, Sasuke cries.

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**A/N: **It's 7:38. I stayed up roleplaying all night. I went to bed and was inspired not two seconds after I laid down. I owe my readers three one-shots and a new chapter. Darlings, I hope you enjoyed this, because I am going to _bed_. No edit for you. It looks pretty clean, anyways. --Judo


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